Why We Fear Mormons

To say that the topic of Mormonism has become increasingly popular is an understatement.  And as people are discussing Mormons and their behaviors and rituals, people are quickly taking sides.  LDS figures in the news media are stirring debate and Americans, especially, are becoming polarized.  Despite their fairly unchanging view of the world, Mormons seem to be getting crazier by the second.  So why are Mormons so controversial?  Why does the tone set by discussions of this religion differ so much from the discussion of Catholicism, Protestantism, Jehovah's Witnesses, Buddhism, etc (Islam not considering)?

Mormons on Parade
Obviously a large factor of the increased heat on the LDS church relates to Mitt Romney.  Despite his attempts to make his campaign about something other than his beliefs, he has coaxed out the cavalry.  Mormon critics previously content at letting the LDS church be the LDS church feel threatened now that a Mormon may be making important decisions for them.  In an environment like a presidential campaign where everything is black and white, good and evil, right and wrong, sane and crazy--there is no way a misunderstood religion like Mormonism wouldn't come under some new fire.

My Dad Warned Me About You Folk
As much as Americans would like to think that they are not swayed by their parents' biases, we all have learned them.  Just as many Mormons are raised by Mormon parents who sway and teach them to believe in Jesus Christ, the Book of Mormon, and Joseph Smith, other parents were teaching their kids about the "quacks down the street."   Since the 1800's, Mormonism has always been equated with Polygamy (even after the practice was abolished in 1890).  Abraham Lincoln himself described polygamy as one of the "twin relics of barbarism," siting the Rupublican platform of 1856.  Mormons were portrayed as barbarians and rapists in movies and newspapers.  The fact is, that near-sightedness has not died out and many still hold on to the cultish reputation the church received in the 1850's.  Especially among other religions, the LDS church represents corruption, perversion, and outright barbarism.  Coincidentally most of these religions share a vast majority of common beliefs and practices with these "quacks."

I Was Mormon Once
Interestingly enough, the most intense fear and hatred of Mormons come from former Mormons.  This often stems from what they feel is the cause of their dysfunction in society or from having wasted their childhood living a Mormon life-style.  The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints (which is the official name of the church) demands a great deal from it's members.  Members are to attend 3 hours of church once a week; they are commanded not to smoke, drink alcohol, drink coffee or tea (black and green, not herbal), encouraged to participate in activities and service projects throughout the week, attend the temple.  19 year old males are encouraged (and expected) to serve a 2 year mission, being sent wherever they are needed--this could range from the next state over all the way to Mongolia. 

Needless to say, being a Mormon isn't just something you believe, it's something you live; a lot is demanded.  So if someone comes to the conclusion that they do not believe in what they've been living their whole life, there is often a "how could you" effect.  They've lived their lives under certain assumptions and once that is taken away, they feel as if their world has been turned on it's head.  This isn't unique to the Mormon church, this happens as many children grow up and decide to lead a life very different than how they were raised.  Being an ex-mormon, however, gives that adolescent life-style a name to point their finger at.

Personal Note
I am an active Mormon, so obviously I have my biases.  Having done everything that has been expected of me so far (the mission, the church attending, the temple attending, etc.) there is a conclusion that I have come to.  If I were to leave the church tomorrow, I would still be grateful for the experience of growing up in the LDS church.  I can assure you that no belief, practice, commandment, expectation, or ritual was ever detrimental to my development as a quality human being.  In fact, any person (believer or not) living a Mormon lifestyle would be better off for having done so.   Most ex-Mormons I know (and I know and associate with quite a few) are good people, partly because they grew up in a wholesome and enriching way.  The ex-Mormons who consistently go out of their way to blame the church for their dysfunction always claim a life so much happier post-Mormonism, yet all I hear is how messed up the church has made them.  It isn't new that as people become unhappy or unsatisfied with their life and/or choices they are tempted to blame their parents (not to discredit legitimate parental abuse or neglect).  Being raised Mormon gives you something else that's easy to blame.  If only Mormons weren't so judgmental I would have been a happier person.  Scapegoats are common, a happy childhood is not.  Belief aside, a good, healthy, and active life is a happier life.

Here's some fun Mormons:

 

Real Urges (or, The Babbling Blogger)

Every so often we are reminded how insignificant we are.  We suddenly, inexorably get the urge to do something more than we are doing.  Even if what we do is noble, productive, or even exhalting.  Today I was studying economics—a means to a financial end—when I got the urge to start writing.  I would imagine that most people get urges to do something other than sit quietly in front of a computer screen and type; my wife gets these types of urges (more often than I) and they compel her to be out in the woods or to do something adventurous.  My mind wants to create and feel like I am contributing to our collective thought (somehow adding a philosophical or humorous paragraph or two appeases these needs, even if no one reads them).  As a result, I arrange words into aesthetically pleasing sentences while paying more attention to grammatical structure than actual content.  Anyone reading this would attest to that.  

            In an effort to afford more substance, I will try to make this concept relatable to more than just myself and my wife: What urges you?  When you are bobbing through your busy day of productive, yet monotonous activities what calls to you?  The library?  The car?  The waves?  The movie theater (not just for entertainment, but those who really get inspired by creative cinema will understand this one)?  For my father, it is public policy.  His life is given spice and wonder if he can convince one person that his opinions of moving towards a better world are valid.  My wife (who thinks little of humans and more of animals), finds that time spent in nature detaches her from the greed and thoughtlessness of man and connects her more the sweet innocence of her favorite creatures. 

            Now for an analysis: So What?  What does it matter if I do or do not satisfy my urges to the betterment of my soul?  I would say that your real urges are God-given and, are therefore, a part of exhaltation and eternal progression.  Not to be confused with just any urges; these “real” urges soar above the urges (good and bad) that make up our daily life.  They are the urges that fill the gaps in our lives—the drive to perfect us.  These are the urges that will eventually lead us to our optimal selves… our epitome.  The utopia of individual and collective harmony is built on the real urges of the “every so often.”

            This is, of course, assuming that we a.) recognize and follow these urges and b.) want this desired outcome.  Some choose a life of mediocrity merely because.  Because it’s easy, because it’s fun, because it’s simple: these are all invalid excuses.  Mediocrity may be easy, but eventually, ease becomes an agonizing burden of self-mutilation.  “Fun” also becomes boring and vapid.  All of these reasons then rule the “simplicity” of mediocrity to be just plain wrong.  Simplicity would be to go where these urges lead you, not to fight against them.  At first, it may seem simple: to simply do nothing.  In time, doing nothing becomes the most costly and un-simple thing to do.  There are no valid reasons (besides perhaps the cunningness of the devil) for a soul to remain mediocre.  I therefore restate: some choose a life of mediocrity merely BECAUSE.

            Real Urges are the reason we stop and the reason we think deeply.  They are the cause of great discoveries and the inspiration for self-portraits.   They can be life-altering motivations or strange daydreams.  We are proudly ashamed of them or ashamed to be proud of them. 

            But what do I know.  I did not plan to write this or even take much aforethought about this subject.  I was simply following a pleasant urge.

Ambition Without Dreams

Have you ever wanted to be something? Have you ever thought “if only I could?” Has a career or lifestyle ever seemed so appealing that you felt like you had found your calling? You have? What’s your secret?

Our generation is often told that we can do anything we set our minds to. All we need is to pick a direction and work our hardest. Some would say that this is idealizing and that some will never fulfill their dreams no matter how hard they work. Some have dreams, but lack the drive and work ethic to accomplish them. What about us? What about the people who have developed a work ethic, who believe they can accomplish anything, who are even fortunate enough to have the resources and support to become ANYthing they set their minds to… and, along the way, neglected to develop a dream. We, who have all the ambition in the world, yet remain apathetic towards any ambitions. What do we do?

College? Certainly. Career? Absolutely. Further education? Why not? But what in the world do I do for the rest of my life. Some know from their childhood that they want to be a doctor or a fireman or a dentist. Some learn in college what their real interests are. Some NEVER figure it out and go wherever the wind takes them, ending up in a droll, mediocre living; a means to an end. Some… don’t want that.

I love to learn. I light up when I’m researching interesting historical figures or classic literature or musical genres. I have passion for a lot of subjects; none of which would make a suitable career or that I would want to ruin by MAKING them my career. So what now? Business school? Can’t go wrong their, right? Aside from the fact that most business-related subjects are so boring they make me want to take out a small business loan for a start-up firearm dealership simply so I can blow my brains out. But hey, it’s a means to an end, right? And what end is that? The end of my career? My life? Do I really want to spend the majority of my life in a job that blows so that I can enjoy my few years of retirement before I die?

Bottom line: I want to accomplish something grand--something of worth; something hard, improbable, fun, and completely fulfilling. I don’t care if it’s lofty or if I’ve got my head in the clouds. I like it there, it’s happy up there. Where it’s not happy, is here on Earth; being sensible, responsible, and directionless. HOW DO YOU FIND A DREAM?!?

Why Won't He Call?

I call upon the goddess to aid me in telling the story of a love postponed. A tail of pining and immense attraction that left young lovers spellbound, yet compelled them to patience; in the midst of passion aflamed, any small amount of time may seam an eternity. Madness knocks on the door of the young lover kept from that which is held most dear.

As spring crept through the world, young Aphina—cousin to Aphrodite—galloped through the woods on her noble horse. Her hair darted and tossed as if to dodge the oncoming branches. Her beauty was said to be unmatched in the mortal world and her soul was as clear as an Olympian brook. Her horse slowed and trotted toward a nearby stream. After sliding off and noticing her unfortunate placement; she sat on a nearby rock to wash off her feet. Preoccupied, she failed to notice that she was not alone. Young Pathius had stopped at this enchanting stream to fish for sport. As son to local hero and Olympian Tharacles, much of his time was spent training and hunting in this forest, preparing for the day that he too could make a name for himself. Pathius let out an unintentional gasp, startling Aphina quite suddenly. His gasp was not due to the cold of the stream, nor from some accidently injury, but from cupid’s arrow. He had never seen such a beauty before. Aphina, well aware of his ganderings, quickly jumped up to gallop away. Pathius apologetically called out that he meant no harm and was simply startled by her beauty. As Pathius explained further, Aphina began to sense his sincerity and became flattered at his compliments and polity.

As the day wore on, Aphina and Pathius talked as if they had never met another person in their lives. Everything about them completely fascinated the other. Aphina, used to being gawked and whistled at, was taken in by Pathius interest in her soul. Pathius, on the other hand was completely enamored with the fact that he had found a beautiful young woman that actually had a soul. As night loomed, Aphina realized the hour and jumped atop her (very) patient steed. She was afraid of enraging her cousin Aphrodite (with whom she lodged). Unbeknownst to the young couple, Aphrodite had found and had been observing them privately after wondering what was taking her cousin so long.

As Aphina trotted away, she abruptly turned and yelled out the name and location of her home—much to Pathius’s relief. Aphrodite, being a tad upset for the delay, quickly made him forget this information. Pathius became quite angry with himself at forgetting such precious information, and so quickly; he brooded and tortured himself for hours. Two days went by and he still could not remember the address of the captivating Aphina. In sheer agony of soul, Pathius cried out in supplication to the goddess of love–pleading and begging for his memory to be restored. Aphrodite, surprised at the sincerity of the tortured, young lover and also realizing the harshness of her punishment, decided to restore his memory the next morn.

Ever since this day, men and woman wait at least three days to call after meeting for the first time, in appeasement and sacrifice to the goddess Aphrodite.

One Love

Tonight, I was mistaken for a suicide risk. Now before you jump to conclusions, keep reading (ha, get it, jump to conclusions). Sitting in my apartment, I felt an unexpected wave of depression and hopelessness crash over me. I did what seemed useful: I ran. I ran out the door, down the walk, across the street, and 6 blocks south. I would have kept on running, but my brain had a chance to catch up to my feet and it had to ask “where am I going?” I stopped to gasp for breath. I had, up until this point, been running steadily faster and faster, ending at a thigh-burning life-or-death sprint. Some could say I was running away--away from responsibility, life, or something equally appetising to the field of psychology. Whatever... the faster I ran, the better I felt. As I turned right and walked a couple of blocks, the cold night air also caught up to me. One of my hands plunged into my pocket while the other grabbed my bicep, crossing my body tightly with my other arm. I was still in a stupor and was trying to get a grasp on the hellishly stressful week ahead so my head hung low. Unknowingly, I had become the most pathetic looking, scruff-faced, night-walker that ever graced the streets. As I rounded a corner to walk North, a man came into view standing on his porch. His friend came out of the basement apartment to share a smoke. We all glanced at each other. Shamefully, my first thought was, “I wonder if they’re up to no good.” I coolly turned my head back to the asphalt in front of me. Subconsciously I had positioned myself in the center of the empty road and I'm sure my hovering friend, the street lamp, was throwing a gloomy shadow over my shaggy face. The friends started talking to each other and all I could make out was something to the effect of “…he’s got a look in his eye…”

One spoke up and sayed “hey, you alright bro?”

Maintaining confidence in my tone I responded with a firm “Yeah, I’m fine, just walking stuff off, ya know”

“ok, bro”

“Thanks for asking though”

“Just don’t do anything crazy.”

I replied with a quick “I’m not gonna do anything.” I'm sure they couldn't see it but I couldn't help smirking from amusement.

“You’re worth more than that.”

To which I came back with an equally quick but genuinely grateful “ ‘ppreciate it”

My first thought was not one of shock at the comment; my first thought was how impressive it was that the man actually cared enough to say something. I never see anyone voicing concern for strangers—not even if they feel like there is cause to. I also found it interesting that out of all of the self-proclaimed saints (of the latter-day variety) that I encounter on a daily basis, these two smokers standing on their porch at 1:00 in the morning seemed to show more saintly charity. These guys showed more concern for me in their brief query than any BYU student had done in the past year. Meditating on his words I proceeded to evaluate my own worth (to God, humanity, and to myself), what I could do to have more charity toward my fellow man, how sad it was that I was perceived as somebody on his way to hurt himself… I don’t know what exactly I am to learn from this brief, laconic experience, but I do know that it is significant.

A POEM: "Occupate"

Lucky is the man that loves hard work
And thrives on the tasks and the noise
Of a life spinning out of control,
Neglecting all that it destroys.
How should his life lack any meaning;
His gaze is on what he enjoys?
Whether or not, his mind has forgot
What all of his neighbors and loved ones have sought,
What “ought” to his mind he employs

Foolish the man that revels in art,
Who’s fantasies flow out of calm.
Life still may spin, or maybe it twirls
With worlds and a sprite in each palm.
How is he to get anything done
If faith replaces each qualm?
And lo, what ho, to his dreamland he’ll go
Where Mahler and Checkov, Picasso, Thoreau,
And Poe will be singing him Psalms.

My Friend Street Lamp

Sometimes I spend hours wandering the streets at night. I'll observe the night owls, think about things, or just listen to the city breath. This town has a shallow breath at night and if you're not listening, you'll miss it. I'm not usually out looking for anything on these late excursions; in fact, my motivation for walking around is often just to avoid doing nothing. What I end up finding, however, is character. I find charm in the streets and alleys of this small city. I find mediocre bands making their debuts in struggling cafes. I find late night magic and D&D tournaments in forgotten comic book stores with names like: The Dragon Keep. I find alleys with old fire escapes that are probably much too dangerous to use. I find temperamental street lamps--I wait underneath so that when the lamp turns back on, it will reveal me and not just an empty street. I find weekend dance parties in cramped living rooms with anxious circles of potential dancers. I find that sprinklings of rain don't just fall, they twirl and dance before a gentle collision with my face (something brought to light by my friend, the street lamp). I think I enjoy rain much more than I used to; I can tell by my walking speed. what once excellerated my pace is now inversely affecting it. It feels so nice against my face that I have an urge to experience it more fully; I start to untie my laces. Shoeless, shirtless, and shameless I walk through the back streets. The sidewalks are polluted with umbrella trees so I position my path in the middle of the road. No cars on these streets; I imagine most people have the prescribed amount of sense...

The Trouble With Love Is..... (men's edition)

My friend Cailtlin Bronson posted a blog about the boys in Provo: caitlinbronson.blogspot.com which I found to be not only hilarious, but somewhat accurate. So, with her permission, I've decided to complete this "provo daters" list by adding the woman to it. Though completely stereotyped and for fun, there is still much truth in this.

Similarly to my friend, I too am often asked why (out of all the cute girls at BYU) I remain single and haven't commited to a lifelong relationship in the holiest of matromonies. To help shed some light on this, let us attempt to classify some of the women we run into here in the land of loners and lovers:

-The 'Need A Man' : This product of upbringing has no plans for the future except to find that perfect Elder's quorum president. If this fails, then finishing school and graduating with bachelors degree becomes their "back-up plan." Between reading bridal magazine's and fishing for dates amongst her FHE brothers with 'mom's secret recipe brownies', she often fills her days with watching Gilmore Girls (as most girls do), planning dessert/game nights at her apartment, and occasionally writing that 2 page paper she's been procrastinating for her "Marraige Prep" class. Ironically, these girls are often torn between dating and girl nights, feeling guilty that they didn't spend 2 nights out of the 7 which they normally spend with their clingy roommates.

-The Indie Girl : This breed of unique, yet oh so similar girls (deserving the title since most have not yet matured to womanhood) are not always as independent as their name implies. Many of these girls are looking for 3 things in/on a man: Skinny-jeans, skinny-jeans, skinny-jeans. Though their distaste for trends and popular styles tends to steer them in the direction of thrift stores, they often spend more time shopping for their indie clothes than the trendy kids. This girl will spend her days photographing with her poloroid camera, going to see bands that can't play their instruments, and trying to philosophies so that other people conclude that she can really think outside the box. Careful, being a social descendant from the emo girl, she will pack a lot of drama into that free-thinking spirit of hers.

-The Former Class President : These tend to be the most sought-after women on campus while simultaneously being the most infuriating for men. She has her entire life planned out, but struggles to manage her weekend schedule. Confident, career-centered, and needing only a general social life. A typical day will include an early morning bagel, a dash for the door, school, work, school, work, more school, and top it off with the nightly visitors from the weeker sex (which, contrary to popular opinion, are men). Though most suitors will eventually discover her non-commital nature, she will one day surprise everyone and announce her engagement to a business finance major who treats her like garbage...ah, young love.

-The Foreigner : Though too few, this group deserves an honorary mention. This strong-willed female usually has more than a couple crazy stories (she'd have to to wind up at BYU). Often times, these girls go on a lot of first dates because, although no one will admit it, most boys at BYU can't get over the cultural or (dare I say it) racial differences. For shame! A couple other honorary mentions that won't be addressed due to lack of numbers would be the feminist and the normal girl.

-The "Me Monster" (aka Social Grace) : She often comes complete with features like "let's define who I am," and talking too much. You could also classify this self-absorbed woman in the "foot-in-mouth" category except she never seems to get wise to the fact that she's said too much. Often times the "Me Monster" will be very well-intentioned and will work SO very hard to improve herself in every area of her life (realizing that something is amiss)until... unfortunately... many of them morph into the "Why Not You Monster." This advanced "Me Monster" spends a considerable amount of time pointing out the things that she has done that you should do also. The "Me Monster" will spend much of her day daydreaming through class, conciously collecting things about her day that she can talk about later, and finding groups of people that she can invite herself in to.

-Painstakingly Plastic: I didn't want to go too stereotypical, but no matter how many times we make fun of them, plastics are still overpopulating every place. Always at the pool, never in the in pool, these barbecued barbies will some day have to meet the melanoma monster in person. Aside from outward appearance, these girls will hide away there most interesting features to fit the "perfect" mold. I have not yet been able to determine whether they are always putting on a front, or if they truly have absolutely nothing unique or inticing to their personalities. Despite constant maintanance and a well-practiced flirty voice, the Painstakingly Plastic will attract but never win over a "sweet bro."

These are just a few of the many interesting and intriguing girls that are found in Singleville, Provo. If you are thinking to yourself "awwww, that was harsh, he's so mean to women," just remind yourself that this is all in good fun and I'm only retaliating ;)

Beatnik Blogging

As you are probably aware (made obvious by my web address), I have a small fascination with the Beat Generation. I love the writing styles of Jack Kerouac and Alan Ginsberg. I crave bebop and cool jazz daily. I love my black turtle neck and, admittedly, own more than a couple of beret's. I've often wondered what led me to be so enthralled in this strange era of American History. Is it the stereotyped clothing style of the seudo French-Goth persuasion? Is it the attitude of reckless ambandon that is so delicious to my adolescent pallet--or perhaps the patriotic idea of hitch-hiking across the United States? It could definately be that this generation adored the style of music that I love and study full time. These all may be valid and accurate, but I think the most appealling aspect of these rag-tag, irresponsible youths is this: they valued and lived for creativity. Not only this, it didn't even have to be "good" creativity, it just had to be creative. I look at poetry/writings/art from this genre and half the time it's just ridiculous, stream-of-thought ramblings. Sometimes it's more fun to laugh at than analyze. THIS is the appeal: I can write! I can draw. I can paint/sing/play/create. I don't have to be a scholar or professional. I may not be able to do all of it well, but that's not the point. The point is that I'm trying to create something unique and new. ANYONE can be an artist and EVERYONE deserves to be. We shouldn't have to worry about how "good" our art is and we definately shouldn't have to worry about if other people think it's good. Your art is just that...it's YOURS; it's for you, by you, given to you. The more we create, the better we get at it and if we worry about how it's going to be received, we'll most likely give up early. Nobody starts off exceptional.

The Beat Generation seemed to understand this (at least the way I view it). When thoughts of these beret wearing hipsters enter into our imagination we tend to think of a smoky coffee shop where everyone, dressed in black, are sitting around listening to poetry and jazz. They are listening to creation...and supporting it.

To Be or Not to Be...Blunt.

"You have tacky taste," "you talk a lot... and sometimes too much," "It's interesting that we're dating because you're not really my type." These and many many more dangerously blunt sentences have escaped my lips when talking to friends and women I'm dating. Luckily, most of the people I frequently hang out with don't seem to mind and usually dish it back. Just know this: once I become even somewhat comfortable with you, I automatically will assume a thickness to your skin. When it comes to my opinion and my observations, I often suspend what tact I have and will speak as my brain has initially ordered my thoughts. Except to edit any vocabulary/profanity issues, my mouth will be stripped of all filters.

Let's say a woman asks "does this make me look fat," or even more simple "how do I look?" Now, an intelligent heterosexual male would reply "you look great," or (for the long-termers) "you look fine dear." Me? Weeeell, being the thick-headed, blunt person that I am would (as kindly and politely as possible) tell you the truth. I know... dangerous, VERY dangerous. If I'm lucky, she'll look great; if I'm unlucky, well, it would probably go something like this "That's not my favorite dress in the world, your hair looks good, but that dress and those shoes are not very flattering." followed by a confident--but still awkward-- "no offense."

There you have it, I'm as dumb as I look. So don't ask me questions unless you want some honesty. I'm not cruel, pessimistic, or mean, but I will be completely honest and blunt.

Now, let's discuss some pros and cons

Pros:

1.) I won't lie to you (best policy and all that)

2.) In relationships, there is good communication and no decite (girls usually know exactly what is going on.

3.) It definately makes for some interesting conversations.

Cons:

1.) Foot-in-mouth disease (it's embarrassing for me sometimes)

2.) Occassionally people get the wrong idea or get offended (I'm sorry, I really am, none was implied)

3.) I don't get the luxury of being friends with everyone (some people just don't like it).

All in all, I still think the pros outweigh the cons, but it's still up for debate.

TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK!!!

P.S. I just saw "Sabrina" (the newer one) again. She is extremely blunt and I think it makes her even classier and more attractive :)

Jazz and race

A friend gave me an article the other day, this is what it said:

"All music genres go through a very similar life cycle: birth, growth, mainstream acceptance, decline, and finally obscurity. With black music, however, the final stage is never reached because white people are work tirelessly to keep it alive. Apparently, once a music has lost its relevance with its intended audience, it becomes MORE relevant to white people.

Historically speaking, the music that white people have kept on life support for the longest period of time is Jazz. Thanks largely to public radio, bookstores, and coffee shops, Jazz has carved out a niche in white culture that is not yet ready to be replaced by Indie Rock. But the biggest role that Jazz plays in white culture is in the white fantasy of leisure. All white people believe that they prefer listening to jazz over watching television. This is not true.Every few a months, a white person will put on some Jazz and pour themselves a glass of wine or scotch and tell themselves how nice it is. Then they will get bored and watch television or write emails to other white people about how nice it was to listen to Jazz at home. “Last night, I poured myself a glass of Shiraz and put Charlie Parker on the Bose. It was so relaxing, I wish I had a fireplace.” "

This was my reply:

whoever wrote this is an idiot. I'll agree that there are some people out there like the person in this last paragraph, but you could say the same thing about every kind of music. "Indie rock" kids are made up of true lovers of the music, but mostly a bunch of people who thought that dressing and acting unique came hand in hand with listening to a bunch of obscure artists who write lyrics like they were 5 years old.

People who really love jazz are the ones that realize jazz isn't about race and it never was. That's why Miles Davis (though he hated white people and felt like he had been mistreated by them his entire life) hired them anyway because he found that some people are just better jazz artists than others. Jelly Roll Morton was a white, anti-semetic windbag that was a pain to work with but he is still known as one of the most influential, compositional jazz artists of all time.

I'm not trying to say that jazz shouldn't be accredited to black origins, it should and will always be a part of black and American history. Jazz lives on for the same reason that classical music lives on: it is intelligent, creative music. We haven't "moved on to Indie rock" because it bores us to tears some times.

Music You Wish No One Knew You Had

Among my peers in the university-level musical studies, it is expected that we all, not only learn of the importants of every kind of "academic" music, but have impecable taste in music. Amidst the conversations at the university it is not uncommon to hear phrases like "gee, THAT's challenging music," or "it's sad that people actually listen to that stuff" and "I remember when I used to like that music." For most in the school of music, music is a serious and important study in which everyone should be experts.
I'm not uneducated in music (not to sound snobbish). Classical/jazz theory, music history, dictation and the like have all been drilled into me quite thouroughly, but I find myself (constantly) having to defend my musical likes and dislikes to my fellow music students and professors. So sue me, I like the Barenaked ladies. Crucify me if I can't stand listening to hours of atonal opera or free jazz. I feel that I appreciate all kinds of musical genres, bands, and even levels of talent. Sure, you'll get some kind of tolerance and respect (sometimes) when you tell these people you like classic rock--most musicians aren't completely closed minded. But, you tell these characters that there was a cool rap song you were listening to the other day and BOOM!, they blow a gasket. You know what, there takes some talent to write a pop song (though simple) that is so catchy it has everybody singing it for 2 weeks straight. There is something to be said for the hip hop song with such ridiculous lyrics that no club is found without it played at least twice in a night. You may hate disco, but DANG GINA, when it's playin' at 70's night at the roller rink, you can't help but fall on your behind out of sheer excitement. C'mon, we all have our songs on our playlists that we know we'll get made fun of for listen to. It's the ones that make you hesitate when your friends say "let me see your ipod" (dangerous words, huh?). You just gotta say "hell, I love what I love so lay off!"
So...yes, I do love Michael Jackson; I have listened to Daniel Powter's "Bad Day" more than most of the songs on my ipod; yes I do still listen to K-ci and jojo's "All My Life"; Earth Wind and Fire will NEVER die; I'm a straight man and I'm obsessed with Harry Connick Jr.; Eminem is kind of a genius; AC DC and U2 are not as good as people make them out to be; and "Who I Am" (you know, the song about her being Rosemary's Grandaughter) by Jessica Andrews is a well written song. There I said it! Phew, now excuse me while I turn up my Tori Amos.

Welcome to My Life

So I am new to the whole blogging thang, but I find it somewhat big-headed of me to think that
somebody would be interested in reading a webpage about my life (or my random thoughts and
observations); But whether it is the flattering thought that people might actually be interested in what I have to say or the idea of using this as sort of a journal-type experience, this blogging thing is kinda thereputic.


I'll pretend that I have regular readers (if that's just me, so be it) who are good friends.

I suppose a good way to start that out is to introduce myself and my life. I'm 23 and single (this is young! Here in Utah I might as well be telling people that I'm 40...we'll save that for another post); physically I'm a wirey, caucasian, 6 foot tall, Adrian Brody look alike who can grow one....magnificent beard. I'm a jazz saxophone player (majoring in jazz studies) who takes any opportunity to convince himself and others that he should have been born a black man in the 1970's--what a gorgeously fascinating time. Despite my strict Mormon/Utahn upbringing I'm an open-minded free-thinker. Don't get me wrong... I'm still LDS, in fact, I'm very active and strong in my religious beliefs, I just know WHY and I'm a motivated seeker of truth from all sources (religious, scientific, mythological, or
otherwise).

In my experience, most people have good intentions so it's hard to be mad at the world; it just so happens that most of those "most people" are not too good at following through with their good intentions. It's hard to point fingers though; we all have our weeknesses. When I was living in Portland, my missionary companion and I had an old piece of paper stuck to our door that said "Lord, please help me to accept those that sin differently than I do." Amen whoever you are...Amen.

Awesome Anger: the Aged vs. the Adolescent

There are two raging volcanoes in my house. Both are predictable and uncontrollable, but neither will stop errupting once they've started. For years there was only one that we all feared and we all learned to get out of it's way until it had cooled off and began sleaping again. As the years went on, that volcano grew old and more dormant. Then...another power arose in the household; it was much smaller than the old mountain and not as experienced, but it carried within itself the stamina of the new generation and the rage of Vesuvius. As the new volcano began its frequent adolescent explosions it rekindled the flame within the old mountain. The legendary "Battle For the Last Word" commenced; forests were devistated instantly and the affects are still being felt throughout the land. For years now, whenever one volcano erupts, it triggers a chain reactions of thousands of little catastrophes and the boiling lava covers all of the innocent village people who (despite their many offerings to these angry gods) writhe in agony as their flesh gets charred from the wave of the arguing titans.